Good DreamBad Dream
by fandomfatale
Summary: Uh-oh! Freddie has a dream about Sam. It's unchaste! Can he deal with it? Freddie/Sam


Summary: Uh-oh! Freddie has a dream about Sam. It's unchaste! Can he deal with it? Freddie/Sam

Author's notes: Please comment! I do have an interest in writing and would love to hear constructive criticism as well as your general thoughts and any questions. Corrections are also welcome, except for punctuation: I have my own style. Enjoy!

He'd had the dream or versions of it before, he instinctively knew, but this was the first time he remembered it.

He wished he didn't. He wished desperately that he could forget it again…or go back to sleep, and dream a little more. No! No.

Freddie sat up against his headboard and scratched his head. This was not good. This was definitely just… not good.

It was 7:00. He always woke up at 7:00, part of his training as a Benson. He didn't even need to set his alarm anymore. He was always already awake by the time his mother barged in, whistling the reveille (thank Gosh that woman didn't have a bugle). She had a rhyme for this practice as well: up with the sun, get more done. And she was right, of course.

She rapped on his door. Freddie started nervously, bumping his head.

Marissa Benson entered instantly having heard the thud, running over to him and bending over him with concern. "Are you all right, dear?"

He rubbed the back of his sore head with one hand, turning away from her groping reach. "Did I say you could come in? I'm fine, Mom." With his other hand he bunched up his comforter, quickly lifting his knees.

"Well, OK, Mr. Grouchy-Pants. Hurry in the shower; I'm making oatmeal."

She left with one last concerned look.

In the shower, Freddie couldn't help but revisit the dream. He played and replayed it over and over again. Every last detail was ingrained in his mind, etched against the back of his eyelids.

The dream was in black and white. It was classy as far as dreams went, refined. Maybe his subconscious had perfected it with each recurrence, revising this and that, making it better and better. Because, if Freddie could say anything about the dream (aside from the fact that it was very, very bad) was that it was very, very good.

It starts out normal enough: he's at the Groovy Smoothie with Spencer, Carly, and Sam. They are all seated at a table near the front. Spencer stands up and says that Sasha is waiting for him outside. He leaves, and Carly follows, calling out her brother's name in a disgruntled way. Somehow, Freddie knows that Carly is upset that Spencer has left her alone with her friends. The small part of him that is partly conscious, that still retains the logic of the real world, is confused.

Freddie watches them go out the door, his curiosity slightly aroused by the reappearance of Sasha Striker in their lives. Then all of the sudden he remembers that Carly called her.

Freddie's gaze returns to the table, but Sam has left her seat, and is lying down on her back on the front counter. She kicks the cash registers out of the way and starts to take her jacket off. He's incredulous, and looks around the Groovy Smoothie to see if anyone is watching or coming to stop her, but no one is around. When he looks back, they're in his bedroom, and Sam is now lying on his bed. She's wearing black lacy lingerie, which she'd apparently had underneath her clothes, but even in the dream he finds that comically unlikely. He doesn't care.

Sam's hand is gloved as she slides it wantonly up her bare thigh. She's staring at him, her expression is difficult to read but he knows with that special dream knowledge that whatever she's doing, she's not playing him. Her golden locks are spread on his pillow and he wants so badly to grab one of her curls and wrap it around his finger.

She moans his name, and though she doesn't gesture he knows she's beckoning him over to her.

He feels like someone is watching, and the thought terrifies him. He resists Sam's siren's call. "Sam," he says, shaking his head. He isn't worried that she'll feel rejected, he knows that she knows he's only afraid of being caught.

"Call me Samantha," she says, taking off her gloves seductively and tossing them at him. "If you don't want her to see us, you should close the door," she adds with a hint of bitterness. She arches her back and spreads her legs a little bit.

"What?" He's confused at first, but then he looks behind him, and sees that his door opens into the iCarly studio. And then he remembers that they're supposed to be doing the show.

Carly is in a white dress, sitting in the blue bean bag chair, and looking at him expectantly.

"We have to do iCarly," he says to Sam. "It's about to start."

"No. It's the middle of the night. Look." Sam points through his door and up at the ceiling of the Shay loft, which is now the night sky, and a full moon shines down on Carly.

"Oh."

The sun is pouring through the window of his bedroom, bathing Sam in its rays. "No, it's day," he argues.

"Only in here," she replies. "It's tomorrow in here. Yesterday in there."

He looks back at Carly. She looks incredibly beautiful in the moonlight. She calls out his name, and he knows she's offering herself to him.

"You had better go," Sam says tiredly, turning her eyes to the ceiling. "Hurry, get to her, before the oil gets here."

"What?"

"The oil is coming."

"But we're in Seattle."

She shrugs. "I'm going to cry, and I don't want you to see. Please go."

But he doesn't want to go. He feels Carly behind him - better, kinder, sweeter, perhaps prettier…everything he always wanted, and wanted so much. But the moment when he has to choose is the moment when he knows he wants this one: the blond demon. Selfish, lazy, rude, insatiably hungry, physically and verbally abusive… but soft-lipped, and somehow just right for him.

"Don't cry," he says. He goes over to the bed and kisses Sam. Carly herself shuts the door gently behind him, leaving them alone. The apprehension Freddie's dream-self felt earlier is gone except for a certain amount of fear regarding the oil. He takes Sam into his arms and…

"What are you doing in there, Freddie?' his mother asked, pounding on the bathroom door.

"I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry: I like cold oatmeal," he shouted, shaking his head, and himself out of the reverie. He still had to shampoo one more time.

After he had dressed and breakfasted, he spent about an hour pacing in his room. The place felt strange, the stage for the events of his dream. The emotions were still fresh in him: he still felt the echoes of how he'd felt when he was dreaming. That might go away, but he'd never forget. Someone pass the brain bleach. Please.

For all that had happened in the dream, the part that felt the most foreign to him was the part where he was looking back at Carly - looking so gorgeous in her twirly white dress, and glowing in a cascade of moonlight – and not wanting her. Nothing in the world could have gotten him through that door if it had meant hurting Sam, if it had meant choosing Carly over her.

The thought of Sam dressed like she belonged in a Vanessa's Secret catalogue was humorous, but he couldn't laugh about it yet. He couldn't laugh about any of it yet.

He didn't know what to do: he couldn't face her. Not after having just had an erotic dream about her. Good thing she probably wouldn't be awake for another three hours.

Freddie managed to avoid the rest of the gang until that evening. He had plenty to do, between maintenance of the iCarly website, chores, and some tech wiz jobs he'd picked up. But Carly came by, and invited him over for a spaghetti taco dinner. Ever since they'd beat Ricky Flame on Food Fight, the spaghetti tacos got better and better. They tried out new ingredients and cooking methods. Sam usually grew impatient and ate hers before they were done. Despite loving food, Sam didn't have the most nuanced palate. Spencer didn't mind them trying to improve on his recipe: Carly always made sure he got credit as the inventor, and he usually helped out.

Freddie knew he could put off seeing Sam again for as long as he wanted to, but it had to happen eventually. It would be best to just get it over with, so that he could focus on iCarly when the time came.

Spencer and Carly were in the kitchen and Sam was on the couch when he walked in. "Fredward," Sam greeted warmly. Despite her protestations of dislike, she always did seem happy to see him. Then she shook her head, laughing. "That name makes fun of itself. My biting wit isn't even necessary."

Freddie looked at her nervously, trying not to appear stiff or abnormal. Trying not to think that she looked pretty. Did she have to be lying down?

"Freddo," Spencer said in turn.

Carly smiled. "Hi, Freddie."

"Smells good in here," Freddie said politely, closing the door behind him.

"Not anymore," Sam shot back. "What's wrong, Benson? Have you washed your anti-bacterial underwear too much? Have they lost their germ-fighting power?"

"At least I wear underwear," was Freddie's retort. He hadn't even been in the same room with her for a minute and not only were they already swapping insults, but he was referring to her undergarments. His mind flashed involuntarily to the image of her lying on his bed in black lace.

"Carly!" Sam accused. And she was right to do so: Carly had let it slip that Sam had a certain aversion to panties and to the word itself, but that had been more of a middle-school issue.

Carly smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. But it's funny. And anyway, that's old news. We all know you wear…panties now."

Sam groaned.

"Underwear," Carly amended. "Under clothes. Under garments. Clothes under your clothes."

"Yes, I do wear…p-panties now. But not because I listened to you, Carly. I'm not taking advice from someone who wears thongs. I will never, _ever_ wear a thong."

"WHAT?" Spencer exclaimed. He plugged his ears.

"Sam!" Carly chastised. She blushed, sparing a look at her brother before returning the glare to her friend.

Sam shrugged. "What goes around comes around."

Freddie had to laugh at her. "That's really ironic coming out of your mouth, Puckett." He'd been about to call her Sam, and then had wanted to call her Samantha, so he went with her last name to be safe.

Sam ignored him. "Well, except for poor Spencer here, we all already knew. Me, because you told me, and Fredperv from rifling through your panty drawer."

Freddie crossed his arms and scowled, but he didn't have a clever riposte. It should have bothered him more than it did…it had something to do with the way he felt about Carly. The less he cared for Carly, the less her comment hurt.

"Talk of panties – all varieties – will hereby halt," Spencer declared. He unplugged his ears and resumed meal preparation.

"I couldn't find any designs at Build-a-Bra that matched my boxers," Sam explained, picking up the thread without regard for Spencer's edict. "And Mama needs something to hold these babies up." She grasped her bra straps just below her shoulders and pulled them up and down twice.

Freddie squirmed silently. Was this seriously happening?

Spencer stopped what he was doing. "Sam!"

Sam lifted up her arms questioningly. "What? I'm not talking about panties. I'm talking about bras." She glanced around the room. "Though I don't suppose this will be much of a conversation. I mean, I'm sure Freddie wears one sometimes, but I imagine he'll play that one close to the chest, no pun intended. And as for Carls here, the only reason she needs a bra is so that no one can see her nipples. I'll have to go talk to George."

"That is not true!" Carly protested. "I need support!"

Spencer screamed like a little girl and took off sprinting for his room. A second later his door slammed shut.

All three of them laughed.

Carly was laughing, but she was trying to frown. "I don't appreciate your mockery."

"No one ever does," Freddie added, glaring at Sam.

"As Freddie can attest, I'm getting curvier every day," Carly continued, accentuating her point with a wag of her finger. "No one likes being calling a surfboard."

"I didn't call you a surfboard; I _implied_ it."

Carly didn't crack a smile…and then she burst out laughing.

Sam joined in. "All right, go get Spencer. Tell him I'm done."

"Yeah, we need him to chop the onions. I can't do it. I cry," Carly said.

Freddie nodded and went after Spencer. He was glad to get away from his friends and their conversation. What was alarming him was the fact that he had spent the entire exchange thinking about Sam, and not Carly. Watching Sam, and not Carly.

And, actually, he was glad to get a moment alone with the only father figure he had.

Spencer told him to come in after Freddie knocked. He was sitting on his bed, looking at a magazine. "I am not going back out there," he stated firmly.

"Sam's done grossing you out. She said so."

"Well, all right then," Spencer said, jumping up.

Freddie cleared his throat nervously. "Well, I was wondering if I could maybe ask you something first."

"Is it about underwear?"

"N-no. Not really."

"Then shoot."

Freddie closed the door behind him. "Have you ever…had a dream, about someone – a ro-romantic sort of dream – about someone that you _really_ shouldn't have that kind of dream about? You know, someone you don't like in that way, and don't _ever_ want to."

Spencer narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that? I never told anyone about that." He took a step forward and loomed over Freddie in an intimidating fashion. "How did you find out?"

Freddie furrowed his brow in confusion, until he realized what was going on. "No. No, this was a dream that _I_ had." He sat down on Spencer's bed and rubbed his forehead distressfully.

"Ohhhhhhhh. I see." Once his relief settled in fully, he laughed uproariously. "Who was it about? Was it about me?"

Freddie didn't think that was very funny. He rolled his eyes. "It wasn't a guy."

"So it was a female?"

"Yes!"

"Human?"

"Yes!"

"Just checking. Your Mom?" Spencer asked, laughing uncontrollably. "It was about your Mom, wasn't it?"

"Why, was yours about her?" Freddie demanded, growing impatient with Spencer's amusement.

Spencer's laughter vanished. He decided to sympathize with his young friend, but not before a hearty and also sincere denial.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you who it was about. And it doesn't matter." Did it? "I just need some advice. I can't think about this person without thinking of the dream. Has this ever happened to you? Is there anything I can do about it?"

Spencer crossed his arms and crinkled his brow thoughtfully. "When did you have this dream?"

"Last night. Well, this morning, I suppose."

"Just give it some time, dude. A few days, a few more nights sleep – you'll forget all about it."

Freddie wasn't so sure.

"Remember: it's just a dream." Spencer iterated. "A lot of crazy stuff happens in dreams. It doesn't have to mean something. I mean, there was probably a lot of stuff in that dream that doesn't have any bearing on reality."

"In the dream you were going on a date with Sasha Striker."

"Tell me more." Spencer put his hand under his chin like The Thinker, suddenly interested. "I'm sure it all means something. We should work through this."

Freddie shrugged. "That's it. Carly called her for you."

"Carly?" Spencer brought his eyebrows together in puzzlement. He let the subject go, returning to his earlier inquiry. "But I really think you should tell me who it was about, so I can do my most to help you," Spencer pressed.

Freddie sighed. "You just want to know. And I'm not going to tell you, because you'll tell Carly."

"I won't."

"You can't help it."

"I swear! We can ankle swear, if you'd like."

Freddie hesitated. He really did want to get it off his chest. He stood up, opened the door and checked behind it to see if anyone was listening. Once he knew for sure it was clear, he closed the door again. "It was about Sam," he whispered.

Spencer laughed. "You have deep psychological problems. Deep. A dream about your Mom would've been less screwed up. The oedipal complex is a piece of cake for psychologists, but a masochist is a masochist for life, I'm pretty sure."

Freddie groaned and hit his head against the wall. Twice. Three times.

"Freddo, Freddo!" Spencer grabbed his shoulders and stopped him. "Relax, I'm just messing with you. Actually, you and Sam? I don't know…maybe that could be something. I mean, she _is_ pretty hot. I didn't say that. She is a very nice-looking young lady. And you guys are friends, right?"

"R-r-right…"

"And I'm sure she'll mellow with age, like a good cheese."

Freddie chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "She hates me."

"Even you know better than that. She's just a tough little cookie. Maybe you ought to start asking yourself why she acts like she hates you."

"She's in love with Carly?"

Spencer clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Keep digging." He ruffled Freddie's hair. "Let's go back out there before the sauce burns."

"What took so long?" Carly asked, still working away in the kitchen.

"Nothing, just guy talk," Spencer replied, heading towards her.

"Wouldn't you need another guy for guy talk?" Sam asked him, winking at Freddie.

"You're right, you should have gone," Freddie rejoined angrily.

"I wear panties now!" Sam cried, and it sounded as if her feelings might have actually been hurt.

Carly was taken-aback by the seriousness in her friends' voices, but Spencer was laughing. Still sympathetic to Freddie's plight, he asked Sam to turn on the TV.

She sat up in order to reach the remote, and Freddie sat down next to her on the couch.

The news was on. A story about the oil spill. Disaster in the gulf!

He couldn't get away from this f&%king dream!

"The oil is coming," he couldn't help saying.

Sam looked at him like he was crazy. She wasn't a geography genius: this was the girl who thought Norwegia was a country. But she seemed to know enough about the spill and where it was to think he was a doofus. "Dude, it's in the gulf. We're in Seattle."

"Uh, right."

"Fredwad here has lost his mind," she informed the others. They ignored her.

Freddie sighed and leaned back into the couch. "Just change the channel." Her condescending tone didn't bother him. He'd shot back at a few of her jabs that evening, but he'd never actually been offended, they just slid right off. They'd been friends were too long for him to take her insults to heart. And tonight, he found himself glad that she was paying attention to him. Carly was more likely to be attentive when she needed something, or to be polite, but Sam _always_ had a word for Freddie, even if it wasn't nice.

Sam finally noticed something was up during dinner. Spencer, who, it turned out, had quite the devious side when he felt like it, arranged for Freddie and Sam to sit opposite each other. Freddie found himself watching Sam the way he used to watch Carly. His eyes kept being drawn back to her. He barely ate any of his spaghetti tacos. Well, you can only stare at someone so much before they realize it. Sam didn't call him out on it, she just raised her eyebrows in a non-hostile way and then went back to eating.

It made his stomach flutter. Fluttering in his stomach was not something he wanted to feel about Sam.

Something was going wrong here. The further he got away from the dream, and the more time he spent with Sam, the worse it was getting. He was growing more and more attracted to Sam, less and less smitten with Carly, and deeper and deeper into a pile of shit. Selfish, lazy, rude, insatiably hungry, and physically and verbally abusive might have seemed like endearing qualities in his dream, but they didn't sound so good to him right now. Of course they became more and more endearing as he pictured her with less and less clothing on.

Freddie shook his head, not for the first time that day, to knock himself out of it. Now he was fantasizing about her.

He lifted two wide, panic-stricken eyes to Spencer. Help me, they cried.

Spencer shrugged: there wasn't a lot that he could do.

They played Bananas to Bananas after dinner. Freddie tried to reignite the fire he'd always felt for Carly. She was still sweet and beautiful and delightfully quirky, but all he felt was friendship. He adored her…but just as a friend. He was still attracted to her – that kind of thing didn't just go away - but that pang that he felt that made him believe it was love…that was just gone. Vanished. The trace it left put the affection at a distance, like a beloved childhood toy. He wanted to know Carly for the rest of his life, but not as his wife.

He'd never thought about Sam and the future much, just supposing she'd sleep on his and Carly's couch in between stints in the pen. Instead of a guest room, they'd have a parole room. But as he looked at her now, he was suddenly afraid of losing her. He wanted to know her for the rest of his life too, and not because she was friends with friend, or friends with his girlfriend, or friends with his wife.

He didn't know what was going on. All he knew was that when he went to bed the night before he was thinking about Carly, and tonight he was thinking about Sam. As for tomorrow…He really didn't know.

Or did he?

Author's Notes: Wow, you made it to the end! Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it. I hope the dream wasn't too heavy-handed; I wanted it to be like a real dream, but not quite so boring to read, so it had to make a certain amount of sense and push Freddie in a certain direction. I had trouble ending it, so I apologize if it seemed abrupt or was unsatisfying. Thanks again!


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